


Don't Tell Him

by parttimehuman



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also kind of, Alternate Universe - Human, Crushes, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Softness, kind of, twlivebingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 14:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18551824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parttimehuman/pseuds/parttimehuman
Summary: Scott walks a slightly tipsy Stiles home after a party. Under the stars of the night, it's really hard to ignore the feelings he has for his best friend. If only they were mutual...





	Don't Tell Him

**Author's Note:**

> For the TWLiveBingo: Scott/Stiles & Don't make it to bed 
> 
> Just something short and silly. Enjoy!

Scott loves parties. It's not like he's invited to many of them, and if he is, not a lot of people care about his presence there, but there's this feeling that is new and exciting that he's only starting to discover, something to do with carelessness and letting go and living the moment.

 

After years of being shaped into a well-behaved kid, into a sensible young man, into a good student, into a hard-working member of society, into a leader - always being pushed and pulled at, Scott feels like he's found a way to press pause on the usually so relentless game of growing up.

 

While he doesn't really get the appeal of all that beer his teammates seem to be drinking all the time, Scott likes the burn that tequila leaves on his tongue, and he loves the way it makes him weightless even more, the way it turns music into something alive that crawls beneath his skin and moves his body, the way it makes the colors he sees a little blurry, the hard edges the world is made of a little softer, everything he sees and hears so lovely. He never wants those nights to end.

 

Of course, it's not mainly about the rush of alcohol in his system or the dancing or all the kids that suddenly find him interesting although they've never spared him a second look at school before. It's not about the lights or the warmth from within or the laughter.

 

Because Scott has been cursed for longer than he even remembers, it all comes down to one thing - the same thing that every other part of his world seems to revolve around just as well: Stiles.

 

Going to parties is fun, taking Stiles to parties is a promise for something unforgettable. Drinking is fun, but slowing it down after a couple of drinks is worth it when Stiles is around, because sitting back and listening to his drunken rambles about the world and the universe and conspiracy theories related to werewolves living in Beacon Hills is a whole experience on its own. Stiles doesn't dance like other people do, doesn't care if his body looks as graceful, sometimes he simply closes his eyes and loses himself, and that's when Scott loses himself too.

 

At a certain point in the middle of the night, which is a regular occurence by now, Scott drags Stiles away from the crowd and hands him a bottle of water, shaking his head with a smile on his lips that he assumes must be loving. He allows himself this, if only because he knows Stiles is too tipsy to notice it.

 

"You're going to scare the entire high school if you keep talking about whatever a bestiary is, man," Scott answers when Stiles gives him his most adorable pouty face, asking why Scott is interrupting all the fun he's having. It's not a complete lie, but it's not the entire truth either. Secretly, Scott wants a bit of Stiles' loosened tongue and drunken charm to himself before the sun goes up and the magic fades along with the darkness.

 

"They should be scared," Stiles mutters, following behind like a puppy, stopping in his tracks every now and then to take a sip from the water, which apparently he can't do while walking. Every time, Scott stops as well and turns around to look at the way the moon illuminates his features, waiting until Stiles has caught up with him again, their shoulders brushing against each other as they walk home, the scene as it can be witnessed from the outside the exact same as it has been for years, but not the feelings that Scott carries in his heart.

 

It wasn't a sudden development, and rudely enough, he wasn't notified of it, which caused Scott a whole lot of confusion and a little bit of shame when it finally hit him in a moment not so unlike the current one. He and Stiles were alone and the world had fallen away from directly around them, unable to touch them. One look was enough, one touch, light as a feather, the sound of a laugh in the air, and then a moment of silence that wasn't silent at all in Scott's mind. The next second, the confusion was gone and Scott knew, has known ever since, that life isn't the same anymore, and Stiles not just a childhood friend but his  _ everything. _

 

"Hey, my place or yours?" Scott wants to know. Really, it's more like the two of them share a room in both Sheriff Stilinski's and Melissa McCall's house. The years have taken all meaning from words like 'yours' and 'mine', at least for Scott, but he doesn't expect Stiles to feel the same way. "Stiles?"

 

"I'm thinking," says Stiles, once again standing still, unable to concentrate on both thinking and walking at the same time. Scott adores how every thought process is visible as such on his best friend's face, how he always knows the exact moment he can expect a witty answer from him.

 

"What are you thinking about?"

 

"Which one of our parents would be more disappointed in me for getting drunk," Stiles responds promptly.

 

"Probably my Mom," Scott notes, remembering the first time he got absolutely shitfaced and she came up with a no-Stiles-rule for an entire week. "But she has an early shift at the hospital tomorrow, so she should be asleep now and out of the house before we get up in the morning. We only have to get to my room quietly."

 

If Stiles chooses his own bed over Scott's, he won't complain either, but he kind of likes having Stiles sleeping in his home, sometimes even wearing one of Scott's t-shirts, or a pair of his sweatpants, which never fails to give him some inappropriate thoughts.

 

"Probably a good call, McCall," Stiles slurs, and then stops to laugh. "Hey, see what I did there? McCall. Hilarious. Anyway, I think the real question is, is there a worthy breakfast in your fridge so you can tend to my hangover tomorrow?"

  
  


Scott chuckles, not because he finds Stiles as hilarious as he finds himself, but because Stiles is being so unapologetically himself that his heart is doing funny things.

 

"Do you know my mom at all?" Is the only comment Scott has to make in response to that.

 

"Fair point," Stiles admits. "La casa de McCall it is. Let's go." And with that, he's marching ahead, saluting as he passes by Scott, his skinny, lanky body in a terrible posture, the crooked smile stealing Scott's breath away.

 

"You're so insane, I love you," Scott says, with a faltering grin because the confession tastes good on his lips until he realizes he only dares to speak it in the safety of the dark of the night and Stiles' intoxicated state, but when Stiles turns in a half pirouette and in the middle of the night, the sun shining from his face, eyes wide open, lips pulled up, he wishes it was different.

He wishes they were different. He wishes he wasn't so afraid of breaking their friendship. He wishes for the courage to repeat his words in the broad light of day.

 

Approximately five minutes after they started walking, Stiles sits on the ground in the middle of the street, humming a song Scott doesn't recognize.

 

"I'm not gonna make it," he announces when Scott throws him a questioning look.

 

"Well, I'm not leaving you where the next best car is going to run you over, so get up," Scott says softly, offering him a hand.

 

Stiles takes the hand, closes his fingers around it, his palm warm and soft against Scott's. Funny, Scott thinks, how something can make him weak and strong at the same time. Unfortunately, that's about as far as the collaboration goes and Stiles just stays right where he is, looking up with eyes that are unfair to Scott, entirely unfair.

 

"Please," Scott begs him. "It's not that far to my house. You'll be in bed in fifteen minutes." He tugs at Stiles' hand and then silently asks for the other one as well.

 

"Are you gonna tuck me in though?" Stiles wants to know, grabbing his second hand. "Are you gonna sing me to sleep?" And then his eyes go even wider, his voice turning into a soft, excited whisper. "Ohh, are you gonna spoon me?"

 

"If I say yes, will you get up and walk home on your own two feet?"

 

Stiles doesn't look one hundred percent convinced. "Scotty. That's not the enthusiasm I was hoping for," he scolds.

 

"I'll do whatever you need to have a good night and sleep well, alright?"

 

Scott isn't lying. He'll do whatever the hell is needed. He'll swallow down the words about feelings that will want to escape his lips. He'll be a friend. A best friend. The best friend. Exactly what Stiles wants, what he needs. Nothing else.

 

Using all his body strength, Scott manages to pull Stiles to his feet after all, although it can't be said the latter is helping him much.

 

"Ooh, you smell nice," Stiles murmurs in his ear during the one second when their chests are practically pressed together, and it's almost like he knows, like he's making it hard on Scott on purpose. Which isn't possible, Scott tells himself.

 

"You smell terrible," Scott replies, and although he adds a "no offence", he knows Stiles isn't taking any, because Stiles is too smart to be offended by the truth, and he probably appreciates Scott using sarcasm way too much to be mad about anything at all. That, or he's smirking for a different reason, but Scott can't think of one.

 

For another five minutes, all goes well, but Scott commits the severe mistake of letting Stiles too far out of his sight as they pass by a bench. By the time the silence gets so suspicious it makes him turn around, Stiles is already draped over the wooden bench, head hanging off of it, arms and legs looking more than just uncomfortable, but the worst is his neck.

 

"You're snoring," Scott says, because it's what always works, getting Stiles up on his feet and ready to fight him, because Stiles doesn't snore, and he's willing to declare war on everybody who claims otherwise.

 

"M'nah," is all that Scott gets in reply. How the hell is he supposed to get Stiles home, up the stairs and into bed safely?

 

"No you're not," Scott sighs, picking up Stiles' arm and putting it over his own shoulder, "but you're drooling. That's not actually much better."

 

"Thought you loved me," Stiles mumbles, not opening his eyes, not even trying to hold onto Scott.

 

"That I do," Scott whispers. And oh boy, he really does. With all his heart and until all eternity.

 

Using muscles he never knew he had, Scott somehow gets a half sleeping Stiles to the McCall's front yard, where he instantly snuggles up in the grass and makes it look like the most comfortable place in the universe. Scott's panting doesn't seem to disturb him in his peace. Meanwhile, Scott's whole body is aching, his back feeling like his spine is simply going to break in half at any second. The things he does for the most precious thing in his life…

 

Just for a second, and just because he needs to catch his breath, Scott lies down next to Stiles on the lawn, staring up into the night sky. The stars remind him of all the times Stiles' dragged him to the planetarium, explaining constellations to him in a speed that had Scott unable to follow, but still in awe. And yeah, thinking about it now, also a little bit in love.

 

When Stiles rubs his nose against Scott's shoulder and makes incomprehensible little noises, Scott almost doesn't want to get up again. He wants to wrap his arm around the other boy and pull him close, wants to draw patterns into his back and play with his hair and kiss his forehead until he's fast asleep and then a little longer, just for himself. He wants to take the time to look, to let his eyes linger on the lines and swings that draw Stiles' face, wants to drink in everything there is to see without shame, without thinking about what it means, and what will change if Stiles ever does find out.

 

In the end, it's too cold and too dirty on the ground to let Stiles lie there for more than a few moments. Other than before, with Stiles being asleep, his body simply melts into Scott's, accepting his touches, fitting into him like a matching puzzle piece, clinging to him as Scott carries him inside. The stairs aren't negotiable with the way his arms and back hurt from just the way inside the house, but luckily, there's a couch that's big enough for the both of them in the living room.

 

Stiles falls into the cushions without so much as opening one eye. Scott pulls his shoes off but doesn't get to bring them out into the hallway. Stiles holds him back, a low grunt telling him not to go. For a brief moment while lying down and covering them both up with a big, woollen blanket, Scott wonders what his mom's going to think when she finds them in the morning. A part of him doesn't think there's a way she doesn't already know exactly what he feels. And another part reminds him that it's not the right moment for fear and doubt, because Stiles is warm and alive and breathing, not only next to him, but pressed against him, hands buried in Scott's shirt. He's got everything he wants right there.

 

With his heart beating too fast and his skin burning where Stiles' breath and fingers touch it, Scott has a hard time falling asleep, but he can't be mad about it. There's no party, no colorful lights. He's light-headed, but not from alcohol, and he isn't dancing, because there's no music playing, but the magic is stronger than ever before, because the magic he can't get enough of is Stiles. They might not have made it to bed, and they might not ever make it to what Scott wishes for them, but at least they're together. In what way exactly doesn't matter nearly as much as the fact that they're by each other's side.

 

Or so Scott tells himself.

 

But that's before Stiles starts sleep-talking.

 

"Don't tell him," is the first sentence among many muttered words that Scott understands.

 

"Don't tell who?" He whispers, stroking Stiles' back, watching his closed eyes.

 

"Don't tell Scotty."

 

"Don't tell Scotty what?"

 

And also, why is Scott's heart beating so loudly now?

 

Stiles grabs him and for a second, Scott thinks he's about to wake up. He's sure he won't ever get an answer. Scared of it, somehow. But then Stiles' body relaxes again. His breaths are still even, his face expressionless, blank.

 

The words are everything but.

 

The words mean the world.

 

"Don't tell him I love him."


End file.
